


Arcana

by JaguarCello



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clairvoyancy, Corruption, Dystopia, Gen, Modern-Day/Future, Tarot, i guess, tyranny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire knows what will happen before Enjolras walks in - he's seen the battlefield he creates, the grisly examples he makes of bankers and politicians - but the future (especially when told by someone who tries hard not to believe in it) could be changed - couldn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "arcana" is the Latin word for secrets, as well as being used in tarot cards, so the title isn't completely made-up  
>  [I own none of the characters; this is based off the 2012 characterisation of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, and none of the place names, people or established events mentioned as canon are my intellectual property]

The world's ending, said the trickle of awareness left to Grantaire in dreams. The air tasted of ash; blood pooled like venom on his tongue, and the wind howled down the sides of the buildings to gust down the empty streets, scattering the papers – hurled from office windows a year ago, when the workers had overthrown their masters and gutted the buildings – that littered the roads, caught in computer cables ransacked by overzealous rabbles. “Capitalism leads us straight to hell,” the posters cried, and in this new equality the path to hell was paved with good intentions; anyone who tried to withdraw savings from the beleaguered banks, or to retreat to their fine homes, was made an example of, and their “excesses” shared with the poor.

 Churches had been dismantled a while ago; the priests, rushing to the sanctuary of the altars like Thomas  Becket had centuries ago, were shocked to find their congregation wielding axes and burning books, proclaiming “We make choices for ourselves, not on the word of a God who doesn’t care!”, and any murmurs of free will were silenced by the swing of the axe-handle. Some had dragged bodies from the ground, and pulled the rings off their fingers and the gold from their fillings, for nothing was sacred any more, to them. Gold could buy silence – in a world of plenty, where food was plentiful and water free, and healthcare available, and property a myth, truth was the only currency still corruptible.

 None of this was officially sanctioned by the skeleton government, but they had overthrown the dinosaur of capitalism with bullets and bombs; in the first elections – the first “free” elections, where the people voted for the party and not the representative – Enjolras won by a landslide. The posters boasted this, and the journalists who had swarmed giddily to the old state-run broadcasting corporation, and (sick of cover-ups and lies) had occupied it, sung his praises, for he was not afraid to bloody his hands to smash down anything that stood between him and his ideals.

 There was a lot more blood on his hands nowadays, but it wasn’t his anymore.

 He could see the monster in the mirror when it was dark and he was alone, because he’d always had ambition and this was the pinnacle of his success. Those who spoke out in favour of the old system – the lords, the old Etonians, the City traders – tended to disappear, lest their comments spread; as Enjolras knew all too well, every revolution starts with a spark, and the dragons of capitalism were fully capable of burning everything he’d achieved to the ground, and so their bodies swung from gibbets or were pecked at by crows, high up on the hills. He’d made murder – assassination – into an art form, and crucifying for the priests convicted of abuse, or drowning for the swimming-coach paedophiles, amused him. Bankers suffocated on bank-notes and politicians were shoved from hot-air balloons to plummet to the rocks below. He smiled at this.

“Examples must be made,” he’d said to Combeferre, back when politicians used people as playthings, and bankers played an elaborate game of chess, of cat-and-mouse, with other people’s money. Combeferre had nodded, and mentioned articles in underground newspapers, but Enjolras had wanted to light the sky on fire.

 Grantaire – moving in the slow way you move in dreams – looked out over a grey sea, saw a flash a white hand from a drowning girl, and then woke up screaming.

 His mouth tasted sour, and his teeth tender, and when he staggered to the mirror, the single bulb dangling over the sink threw up sharp shadows in the hollows of his cheekbones, and his lip was split from what must have been a punch. He didn’t remember that happening – only spotting a girl in the crowd with red hair like his sister, and he refuses to let himself think the name, so when he saw her, he stared – and then he’d remembered her voice when she’d persuaded him to read the cards.

 “It’s all bullshit, you know,” he’d told her, and she’d pouted and said “You promised!” and of course he had because he couldn’t refuse her anything. She’d drawn Death, his horse trampling kings, bishops, squires, and his black flag rising above their bodies, and he’d skittered back from the table in shock, because she was nineteen and beautiful. She’d drawn the Six of Cups, the suite of water, reversed, and he knew she was getting sadder as she grew older. And finally, she’d picked the Ten of Swords; a man, face-down, pierced by sabres, and he knew the sadness would be over soon. He slapped his hand over hers before she could draw – as he knew she would – the Nine of Swords; death, utter desolation.

 She hadn’t said anything, just nodded as he’d told her, and then walked out quickly. She left a note – “I’m sorry. I’m drowning already.” and her body had been dredged from the shallow water by the harbour in a few weeks; “ _those are pearls that were his_ _eyes_ ”, and the song circled his head mockingly until he could drink enough to pass out.He’d been ravaged by guilt, but the police (when he confessed this guilt) – after ascertaining he hadn’t killed her – ignored his ramblings about the tarot cards, and his parents were like zombies, and he was empty inside.

  Even empty people need to eat and drink, though – he’d determined not to drown himself, but didn’t care if he sunk a little. He’d started doing readings for tourists – jovial Americans asking about oil in Texas, and sometimes drunken students in there for a dare, because the shop – nestled as it was in the back streets, and dark when he forgot to pay the electricity bill, barely made enough to cover the cost of running it. He’d started painting his own tarot cards; his sister was Strength, her red hair slipping over her shoulders as she stood beside a lion; he’d painted her hands woven into the lion’s mane, fingers slipping under its skin in a Herculean effort, and her green eyes shone with power.

  He slumped down in his battered armchair in front of the table – the power was off again, and he’d dug some candles out from under the sink. A priest had tried to light a candle for his sister, but he’d been chased away; he lit his own candles, kindled his own flames.

 The door creaked open, and three men – almost boys, tall, as if they’d grown too fast for their skin – loomed over him. One was clutching the arm of another, and the third had dropped back slightly, watching. They were all good-looking; the first was animated, gesturing and smiling and frowning at impossible speeds. The third had the kind eyes and gentle smile of someone who cared about every story you told him, no matter what time it was, but the second one – blonde hair waving down to his shoulders, and blue eyes bright but guarded, and he shifted from foot to foot as if there were a storm raging below his skin - Liberty personified, or maybe Temperance. Startled, Grantaire recognised him from his dream; he stiffened in his chair, because he’d seen his sister in the dream too, and he knew that when he saw her, he was seeing what the cards said – or would say.

 “My friend here,” the first boy started, “wants to get his tarot read. Well, no, he doesn’t want to, but we want him to – “

Grantaire cut him off. “Before you say any more, I’m probably obliged to tell you that it’s all a lie, that it doesn’t matter, and that if you know your ‘future`”, and his face twisted mockingly, “you will probably do all you can to avoid it. And if you accept it is inevitable, you’re an idiot because it’s bullshit.”

 The quiet one looked at him for the first time, eyes bright behind his glasses. “You’re not a very good businessman, are you?” he said, voice soft, and the beautiful one narrowed his eyes.

 “Why do you bother telling us that? If we believed in it, we’d do it anyway. I don’t believe in it – I don’t want to see my future,” and the loud one groaned loudly.

 “Enjolras, you _promised_ –“ and Grantaire’s stomach twisted at the thought of what had happened the last time those words had been said in this room; they seemed to hang heavy in the air, but the blonde boy rolled his eyes. “Courfeyrac, I have no intention of doing this. And – whatever you and Combeferre seem to think – “ he shot a dirty look at the boy with glasses – “I’m not scared of my future. I’d just rather not know.”

 Grantaire shrugged. “Fine, you know where the door is,” and sat back down in his chair. His fingers itched for the brown paper bag he knew he’d stashed under there a few days ago, but he had some decorum, and settled to wait for them to leave.

 “Wait,” the quiet boy cautioned Enjolras. “You did promise, and didn’t you say something once about how promises are the only currency humanity should bother with? And don’t look so surprised – I’ve known you for fifteen years, I know what you’ve said.” He frowned at Enjolras, who sighed with his whole body in a way that sparked fantasies in Grantaire’s mind, but moved closer to the battered table.

 “I don’t do this lightly,” Grantaire said, voice serious now. “The future isn't fixed; it's tangible, you could change it with your fingertips if you wanted to hard enough. But looking backwards is like looking into a mirror everyday and expecting to see something changed, and once I’ve read your cards I’ll dream about your future until it comes to pass. And then I’ll dream about it in black and white, with the occasional splashes of blood – “

 “Can you guarantee it will be bloody?” Enjolras said, leaning forwards and engaged for the first time since he walked in, and the light in his eyes unsettled Grantaire. “Because I have a penchant for character assassinations – “ and Combeferre frowned at him, but he went on. “And if it’s bloody, then I know I’ve succeeded – “

 Grantaire pulled his battered cards  - given to him by an old woman, swapped for a bottle of whiskey – from under the table, and started to shuffle. The three watched him.

 “Aren’t you going to, like, purify?” Courfeyrac asked, the note of mocking in his voice obvious. Grantaire shook his head without looking up, and continued shuffling.

 “There are seventy-eight cards in the tarot pack,” he started. “It’s divided into the major and the minor arcana – the Latin for secrets,” and his eyes flickered over to Enjolras before he looked down again. “The major arcana – twenty-two cards – are allegorical, and rife with symbolism. The other fifty-six, the minor arcana, have four suites – cups, pentacles, wands, and swords, but then with an additional court card – so we’d have King, Queen,” and the look of distaste that passed across Enjolras’s face was obvious.

 “He doesn’t like the monarchy,” Courfeyrac confided, and Enjolras just frowned.

 Grantaire carried on. “King, Queen, Knight, and then the Page card. Erm, you can think of the major arcane like a journey, if you believe in that.” He placed the cards on the table. “You’re going to pick three cards – your past, present and future,” and he pushed the stack towards Enjolras.

 Enjolras tossed his hair behind his head, and picked up a card with long fingers. “Do I – “ and a note of hesitancy had crept into his voice. 

 “No, two more,” instructed Grantaire, and Enjolras did so, sliding them onto the table carefully. “Turn the first one over.”

 It was the Ten of Pentacles, a family standing below an archway, with two dogs and an old man next to them. “Family,” Grantaire said, “and the Pentacles represents property, wealth, material gain. You come from a wealthy family?” but it wasn’t a question. Enjolras nodded, and turned the next card over.

 “The Chariot,” Grantaire told him, “which means you might get your war after all. Or – you’re in the middle of one,” and Combeferre shifted slightly. “It’s triumph, as well – the sphinx have been tamed by the charioteer; it’s victory over all planes of the mind,” and Enjolras smiled, and flipped the next card.

 Grantaire knew, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, what the card was. Death rode his horse over the peoples, and his banner flew, and Enjolras quirked an eyebrow at him, at his silence and the way his hands shook. “Are you okay?” Combeferre asked from the shelf of paintings, and Grantaire nodded. He considered lying for a second, giving a secondary meaning, softening the blow – the memory of what happened the last time Death was drawn shrieking in his ears – but the twist of Enjolras’s lips suggest he’d get a quip about the lies of politicians, if he attempted it. He force himself to look up.

 “Erm, death. Pretty obvious, but then we’re all going to die, so here it means – corruption,” and his voice was hesitant enough for Enjolras’s face to form a mask. “And – destruction, possibly of the triumph you’re about to enjoy now, or destruction of the class you came from.” He looked at the cards, colours shining as brightly as the day he bargained for them, and felt sick. He’d seen the destruction, the posters with Enjolras’s beautiful face on them, the bodies creaking from their nooses in the winds.

 “The class I came from needs destroying,” Enjolras said, in the way that only someone who’d enjoyed an easy life could say, and then he shrugged. “Interesting, but still – what was the phrase you used? Bullshit?” and the curve of his lips was mocking now.

 “You can’t deny it’s accurate,” Courfeyrac pointed out, eyes lingering on the back of Enjolras’s neck, where a faint tattoo read “sedition!” – but Combeferre sighed, and they sloped out. Enjolras stopped to give him a measured look, and pushed a few crumpled banknotes towards him.

 The air in the shop was heavier after they’d left, but he knew – with the startling clarity that came to him sometimes – that he’d see them again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> looking at the future with mushroom-cloud tinted sunglasses

 

He dreamed of Enjolras again that night, of him standing like Justice over the people he had liberated from chains and inequality, and the people – his people, and Grantaire could see that although he would never claim to own them, they would follow him to the ends of the earth for gratitude and love – were chanting his name like a prayer, huddled from the rain in a cathedral. The statues had been smashed and the candles had been knocked over, spilling wax that had hardened into spools of white across the tiles, and the gold leaf of the ceilings had been torn off and shared with the poor of the parish – not that such a thing existed, for Combeferre had redrawn the maps and removed the “arbitrary lines” that had dictated the wealth lottery, and Feuilly had hoarded the old maps, to teach the children of the future about the world that had been destroyed.

 “But then,” Bahorel had said, brushing the wall-plaster out of the grazes on his knuckles, “destruction is a form of creation,” but Jehan had stopped him from taking a Bowie knife to a painting of the Queen, to slash and gouge at the neck they’d severed a few weeks before, high up on the hill in the Tower of London. Enjolras’s face had been cruel and his blue eyes were like chips of solid stormy sea, and the Queen – or just “her,” once her titles and names had been stripped from her with her jewels and she was just a shivering old lady, had had to watch her family executed before her. “We would have used crucifixes,” Enjolras told the baying crowd, “but we didn’t want to give the loyalists another symbol to cling to like they do still to that carpenter,” and his voice was mocking enough that Combeferre had frowned at him.

That night Enjolras had gone to Grantaire with anger in his very bones and his kisses were like fire.

 “La Guillotine,” the papers that had wrenched control back from the government – spearheaded by Jehan - had called the Queen, scornful of her policies, but soon they were calling Enjolras Robespierre and Ozymandias, and his reign of terror soon became distasteful even for those who had called for the skulls of the monarchies of Europe to be smashed on the paving-stones, the crowns melted down and the castles thrown open to the elements to wither like the bleached bones of those who had once owned them, for the grisly truth of this had been realised in shocking technicolour on live television, and it hadn’t seemed so fun anymore.

The cameras and the journalists of the country had helped to fuel the rebellion, carrying coded messages and information to those loyal to “humanity, not the puppeteers,” as the slogans had cried; the world had watched with baited breath, expecting the army and the police to fight against the rebels, but they had thrown down their arms and clambered across the state-issue barbed wire fences to join the crowds. Joly had convinced his fellow doctors to scrap the entire private sector; their glorious new world, their utopia, was rising from the ashes.

 (“But everything that rises,” Grantaire had whispered into the hollow of Enjolras’s collarbone, “must fall,” and Enjolras had turned over and ignored him for three days, but Bossuet had started to prepare for the inevitable backlash. “These things happen to me,” he said cheerfully, and Joly had smiled at him with such tenderness that Enjolras had relented. “No more public executions, “ he’d finally promised.)

Hysteria had given way to a quiet determination once the elections had begun – elections, Enjolras reminded anyone uneasily clinging to their defence of the old way, that picked people from all across the country, and not those simply plucked from public school drinking dens. Grantaire’s mouth soured as he gazed at the news reels, showing the same images of Enjolras winning the election with a landslide majority, and he looked across the darkening sea. The flash of red hair flickered across his vision, and he flinched as if struck.

 The rest of the world had considered stepping in the day after the government abdicated, left, ran screaming for the hills, whatever word they’d use in the history books, Grantaire learned, in the strange trickling of information that filtered into his brain, but – and the knowledge was like ash in his mouth, because he could see what would happen next – had decided not to intervene – “respecting the views of the people,” they had smiled, greasily, down their cameras. The first execution happened within an hour, and Grantaire had seen that everyone cries for their mother when they are dying, no matter who they are.

 He wondered if he would cry, when his time came, and when he woke up Éponine and Cosette were standing over him, arms folded in mirrored dissatisfaction.

 “How are you not dying?” Cosette asked, sharper than he would have preferred.

His brain struggled to separate the dream with reality, and he replied in a half-groan about crying and mothers, and then the fog partially cleared and he sat up, hitting his head on the wooden beam that jutted out of the wall.

 “Should have seen that coming,” Éponine joked feebly, but then looked contritely down at her feet. “You know, you do all that magic bullshit – “

 Grantaire rubbed his head. “It’s not fucking Harry Potter, it’s just tarot cards and I do tell them it’s bullshit and the cards mean nothing, it's just the dreams and they  _know that_  and that’s –“

 Cosette interrupted smoothly. “That’s why your weekly income lasts for three bottles of vodka. Seriously, you can’t go on like this,” and she pointed at the rising damp and the smashed window pane. “Try telling people you didn’t do their readings properly – “ she ignored Éponine’s snort of derision, and went on – “or that you’ll do a half-price one if they bring a friend, or – do relationships ones! Everyone wants to know if they’ll find love;” and she grimaced at Grantaire’s disgusted face. “Just because you’re a cynical twat, that doesn’t mean the rest of us are. Come to the pub tonight, don’t get slaughtered, but wait for people to get drunk and then they’ll be much more willing.”

 Grantaire sniffed, and dragged a hand across his face, stubble catching on his ragged nails. “Fine, but only if you find me something decent to wear, and we go to that student one. Most students have numbed their brains with so much bullshit about right and wrong and Pythagorean bullshit in previous years that they have nothing left between the ears, so more room for beer.” He shoved his feet into the threadbare green slippers and shuffled towards the door, but Éponine grabbed his arm.

 “Shower and shave first, okay? You’ll terrify the customers, and you’ve got a few hours at least before you need to be there anyway. And Cosette found the mouthwash/whiskey combo, and we’ve got you some Listerine – “ and Grantaire nodded his thanks, and half an hour later was downstairs in the shop, clean-shaven and smelling of soap rather than “a distillery”, and he’d even let Éponine put some orange juice in his vodka.

 “You’re dreaming again,” she said, setting the glass down in front of him. “I can tell, and I can tell you’re dreaming about – “ but he choked out “the  _apocalypse_ ,” before she could mention his sister. She just nodded, and sat down next to him on the battered sofa – she’d started believing his stories when he rapped on her window in the middle of the night and told her the police were on their way, and her parents had been locked up for life.

 “Talk to us,” Cosette said, smiling, and so he told them about the beautiful and terrible man he’d met – that he was just a beautiful boy now, but Grantaire had seen the things he’d do and the curve of his thumb when he pointed down, and then he’d remembered the curve of his spine when he’d twisted away from him, laughing naked and care-free, and he went quiet.  

“Do you – will you – fall in love with him?” and Cosette asked it so seriously that Grantaire didn’t feel capable of scoffing, and he looked down at his Coco Pops and shrugged and Éponine – serial heartbreaker and chronically heartbroken - kissed his cheek but grinned.

 “He loves you, or he will,” she almost crowed, and then remembered that she didn’t believe in love, and laughed. “You’re going to fuck, at least,” and Grantaire ducked his head again, and mourned the loss of his witty comebacks, and grinned into his cereal. “I knew it,” she said victoriously, and produced a condom from her bra and chucked it at him. 

 He raised an eyebrow. “It won’t happen until after he sort of, takes over the country – “ and Cosette tried to inhale her orange juice in shock and then coughed and spluttered for several minutes, whilst Éponine flicked her eyes between Grantaire and the condom, until he rolled his eyes and shoved it into his pocket. “Not yet,” he warned her, and she just beamed.

“Do you know anything about us?” Cosette asked him when he was putting his shoes on, and he nodded.

 Éponine clapped a hand over his mouth. “I don’t want to know,” and Cosette looked up at her. “I mean,” she added, “when you see the future it splits, doesn’t it? Like, once you know, you have a chance to change what will happen. By the way, I didn’t just get that from the Matrix. I actually do think about these things – “ She fell silent, looking at the other two from under her fringe.

 “It doesn’t work like that. Remember when we tried to stop Marius from falling in love with Cosette?” Grantaire asked her, and Cosette rolled her eyes. “I am sorry about that,” he said softly, and then looked back at Éponine.

 “Still,” she said bracingly, “at least we’re friends still, and we know some of his friends. Well, you don’t,” she pointed out to Grantaire. “But then I suppose that’s because you don’t like human company or whatever – “ and she ducked the hand that Grantaire had aimed at her head, and laughed at him.

 The pub – the Musain, according to the faded sign that swung from the doorpost – was crowded, but Cosette lead them to the back room, and then Grantaire noticed Enjolras, with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and then he spotted Joly, hand sanitiser on the table in front of him; Bossuet was slouched with his feet in Musichetta’s lap, and Jehan was sitting with a dusty book. Feuilly and Bahorel were sat in the corner, dark and red heads close together, and when they saw Grantaire, they nodded a greeting. Marius leaped up from his table in the corner, knocking over an empty chair, and gathered Cosette up in a hug; Éponine sighed.

 “You’re that “physic” bloke that Enjolras told us about, aren’t you?” Feuilly asked, making a motion with his fingers, and Grantaire nodded, and then turned to Cosette. “You  _planned_  this,” he accused, and she shrugged.

 “You talk in your sleep,” she confided, and then grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the group. “This is Grantaire,” and the proud tone of voice she used made him want to cringe, but he forced a smile at Enjolras. “He’s interested in your cause,” and the group seemed to sit up as one.

 “Why?” Enjolras asked, in the same disinterested tone that Grantaire knew would send many politicians to the gallows or the guillotine, and he shrugged.

 “I think we should all be equal,” he lied, and the cynical tone that had been left over from his dreams had seeped through to his voice, and Enjolras frowned.

 “You don’t sound very convinced that we can make everyone equal,” Combeferre pointed out, and Grantaire shrugged.

 “I think – I think that because power corrupts you can never have equality, because as soon as you – someone – gets what you want, you’ll get vengeance or something. I mean, you hate the government, right?” he asked, and Bahorel nodded.

 “So, you’re going to want to get rid of them. Too dangerous to live – I mean, that’s how you’ll justify it, that if you keep them alive people will still believe in them,” and Enjolras frowned at him.

 “We’re socialists, not murderers,” he said, and Courfeyrac nodded with him. “Yeah, we may spend more of our time fucking than planning the  _finer_  details – “

 “Speak for yourself,” Enjolras told him, and gestured to the maps and charts and notebooks full of plotting and plans. “I’ve been planning this ever since I realised what the government were doing to demonise anyone who wasn’t them, and there is no room in this plan for any sort of dictator. We would never agree to a dictatorship, even a benevolent one,” and Grantaire tried and failed to hide a snicker of disbelief.

 Enjolras’s face was fire and fury, and Grantaire looked away. “The visions,” he’d slurred to Cosette, the first time he’d dreamed in colour near her, “don’t tell me what to do. They tell me what happens, but not how it happens, so I have no idea what to say. Obviously, the outcome is fixed, sort of, but a bit fluid, and so my actions don’t matter, but the visions provide large-scale outcomes. So, if I’m a dick now, I will be thought of as one in the future. I can’t really explain it,” and he’d passed out.

 “Don’t be a dick,” Cosette mouthed to him when he spun round with fear in his eyes, and he huffed out a breath and sat down across the table from Enjolras, reaching out for a bottle.

 “I’m in,” and he closed his eyes as he said it, as he signed up to this revolution that would turn into dystopia and more so than the current government could ever imagine – but he had dreamed this in colour, and it had to happen; peace, he’d decided long ago, was simply retribution for warfare, and humanity loved war as much as it loved sliced bread and rubbish television; disorder would always triumph over regime and regulation, and great civilisations would die and stone stumps left to ruin in the desert until a greater one rose in its place, and fell. This war would be a bad one.

 “We’ll start with the media,” Enjolras announced. “Bossuet, can you make us a Twitter page? We need to get the people listening to us. Be careful. No names – “

 Bossuet sighed. “I’m unlucky, not an idiot. I’ll get on that,” and Enjolras nodded.

 

 “It’s time to get this revolution started,” and Grantaire was the only one in that group who did not cheer. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be long I can feel it in my bones
> 
> (Grantaire paints Enjolras as Justice)


End file.
